


Closer

by estepheia



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-28 01:30:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/estepheia/pseuds/estepheia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of Spike’s former relationships are in ruins; Angel is in a dark place, alienated from his friends and destiny. - Set after BtVS S5 <i>Crush</i> and during AtS S2 <i>Reprise</i> – before Spike orders his robot and before Angel sleeps with Darla. Written January 2003.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closer

**Author's Note:**

> Dedication: This one is for Sisabet for her splendid vid “Closer” which slashes Angel and Spike to the merry little song by Nine Inch Nails. The vid can be found at www.headtilt.com.

A sudden gust of wind sends a tattered newspaper across the road and causes a dented tin-can to tumble noisily against a large trash can. The vampire’s peroxided hair remains unruffled.

“Look who’s here!”

Spike spins around, the tails of his duster flapping.

“Angel,” he states flatly.

The older vampire steps out of the shadows. Spike takes in the sheen of the black leather pants, the cold glare under a knitted brow and the killer gait and flicks his half-smoked cigarette aside. “Angelus?” he asks uncertainly.

“This is my town,” his grandsire says in an almost pleasant voice. “I suggest you get out. While you still can.”

“What you gonna do? Set me on fire, too?”

“You heard?” the Scourge of Europe smiles evilly.

“Dru told me.” Spike fishes an almost full bottle of JDs out of a pocket of his duster but he never takes his eyes off Angelus. “So, how come you’re back, mate? Did someone give you a big happy? Darla maybe? No, not after your souled self torched her, ey?” Spike realizes he’s babbling and closes his mouth with a snap.

The older vampire prowls closer. “Why aren’t you running, William?” he asks, his voice dangerously low. As he gives him a once over, Spike’s skin begins to prickle. He recognizes that look. It tells him that if he doesn’t want to get buggered he has to get out. Fast.

He unscrews his bottle, pockets the top and takes a sip of courage.

Storm clouds gather and distant lightning flashes across the late night sky. Thunder rumbles in the distance. More gusts of wind make the men’s coat tails flap like pennants.

“You know me, Angelus,” Spike grins, tucks the bottle under his arm and lights himself a cigarette. “Always like playing with fire. ‘Sides. Got some business here.”

“No one ever said you were smart.”

Suddenly both men are in vampface and moving at the same time. The bottle shatters against Angel’s jaw, spilling liquor all over him but the glowing cigarette is knocked from Spike’s hand before it can set him on fire. It lands in a large soggy heap of unidentifiable trash and winks out with a hiss.

“Nice try,” Angelus mocks him.

“Better luck next time.” 

“There won’t be a next time.”

Spike’s answer is a shrug, then he attacks. He manages to land a few good punches, but Angel just takes it, like a sodding tank - almost impervious to pain. Spike tries to keep moving, knows he has to be fast to stay on top. He’s laughing. Feinting and dodging, enjoying the dance.

The knowledge that he’s fighting one of the nastiest killers the earth has ever known runs through him like an electric charge. You may be able to bottle O neg, but you can’t bottle this: It’s daft, possibly suicidal, but it’s fucking brill as well. Only surpassed by fighting Slayers, but that’s only because the little girls smell so tasty. 

Finally, when he dodges a sledgehammer blow, Angelus’s fist punches through the side window of a parked Sedan. For a second the larger man’s arm is stuck, his sleeve caught in the jagged remains of the window. This is Spike’s chance to run. Instead he rams his knee into Angelus’s gut, eliciting a grunt. And again because he likes the sound and because he’s running on fury and frustration ever since he told Buffy about his feelings and got shot down. Then, in what’s supposed to be a killing blow, he brings both fists down on Angel’s back, bringing him to his knees. For a moment he seems suspended, then the older vampire keels over.

Spike steps back to gloat. After all, this is a sight that has to be committed to memory: Angelus out cold. Spike grins, shrugs off his vampire features and closes in for another kick. That’s when Angelus moves with lightening speed. He grabs Spike’s foot and gives his leg a vicious twist. Spike howls in pain and drops to the ground, his knee next to useless.

“I knew you’d fall for it,” Angelus chuckles.

Both vampires scramble to their feet. Both are swaying, are bruised and battered. Angelus’s mockery pisses Spike off. He swings at the older vampire, even though his knee hurts like a son-of-a-bitch. Angelus blocks and responds with an uppercut that sends the younger vampire flying through the air. Like a ball hitting the backboard and making a basket, Spike crashes against a brick wall and drops into an open trash can.

“Score!”

Before Spike can climb out of the container he’s grabbed by his neck like a puppy and hurled through the air. He lands face first on the bonnet of a car. Angelus pins him down, one hand on his neck, the other one twisting his left arm painfully. It’s a white Ford Taurus. Spike catches a glimpse of a jittery little Elvis figure on the dashboard, and a baby car seat in the rear. Then the hand on his neck gives him another brutal shove, slamming his head against the metal of the hood, leaving a head shaped dent.

“You should have left when you still could,” Angelus tells him gleefully.

“And miss this? Not for all the booze in the world,” Spike retorts. Knowing what’s about to happen he tries to twist and kick and squirm, but Angelus has got the advantage and counters each of his moves with more pain.

“Glad you see it that way,” Angelus says, his voice dripping with irony. He bends down and presses a brief kiss on the nape of Spike’s neck. Spike jerks his head back violently, hoping to connect with the other vampire’s nose but Angelus evades him easily.

The duster is pushed out of the way and then Spike feels his pants yanked down with an urgency Angelus has never displayed before. Spike bucks of course and manages to hit Angelus’s shin with the heel of his boot. His reward is a furious growl, then Angelus uses his full strength to crush him between his body and the hood of the car. Spike feels a rib crack. Smooth leather touches his bare thighs as Angelus presses his hard-on against him.

“Yield!” Angelus bellows in his ear.

“Sod off!”

Angelus grabs his hair and yanks his head back with enough force to make Spike’s eyes water. His fangs are inches away from Spike’s face. The breath that accompanies the command caresses the blue artery in Spike’s throat.

“Yield!”

Spike tries to shake his head. “Fuck you, Angelus!” he chokes out.

“You’re missing the point,” Angelus chuckles. He lets go of Spike’s hair to punch him in the kidneys. This elicits a yowl. “Fuck YOU, Spike. And I intend to.”

“Should’ve staked you when I had the chance,” Spike manages to say. “When I had you dangling in chains. What a pretty sight that was…”

“Instead, like the idiot you are, you hired Marcus to stick hot pokers into me.” Angelus points out. “Tell me Spike, was that really because of the Ring of Amara? Or because I wouldn’t fuck you when you were in that wheelchair?”

White hot rage boils up in Spike and he resumes his struggles, hurling profanities at the older vampire. In the end Angelus shuts him up by repeatingly bashing his head against the increasingly battered hood of the car. Spike can feel a small pool of blood slowly forming underneath his cheek. As he watches dazedly, the uneven red smear turns into a small wobbly puddle that grows two thin appendages. The blood trickles down the serpentine curves of the dented bonnet, like wax runs down a candle. The sound of the zipper seems unnaturally loud in Spike’s ears. Maybe that’s because neither of them is breathing. He shakes his head, trying to clear the haze that surrounds his thoughts like thick cotton wool.

Meanwhile, Angelus has pulled himself out. Spike can feel the tip of Angelus’s cock straining against his opening. He stops squirming. The battle is over and he knows it. He clenches his teeth and braces himself for the inevitable.

When it happens it’s almost but not quite as painful as he remembers it. Angel must have slicked himself up somewhat, with spit maybe. And he’s doing it slowly. Inch by inch, Angel forces himself inside. It hurts. Spike stifles a scream, closes his eyes and tries to force his body to relax. He knows he can take this. Pain is just pleasure’s dark twin, right? Can’t have one without the other.

Angel begins to push in and out. First slowly, but his movements quickly become erratic. After only a dozen thrusts he shudders and spills himself into the younger vampire. For a moment neither of them moves.

A sharp dent in the car’s bonnet is cutting painfully into Spike’s hip. He can feel blood seeping out of the cut and trickling down his leg. There’s a hungry knot in his gut. His knee feels like it’s on fire. And his ass is sore. But the intoxicating smell of blood, cum and spilled whiskey mingles with memories of silken sheets, opium fumes and tangled limbs, making him ache with want.

“You know, Angel, I’m going to kill you for this,” Spike finally says.

His grandsire straightens up and lets go of Spike’s twisted left arm, but he doesn’t pull out. “Why start now?”

Spike flexes his arm then puts both palms in front of him, on the Ford’s hood and slowly pushes himself into a more upright position, careful not to dislodge the older vampire. “You picked a fucking Taurus! When there’s a perfectly good Mustang just a few yards away.”

“Nag, nag, nag. Next time I’ll make sure to ask, which one you want to bend over.”

Spike snorts. “There won’t be a next time.”

Angel cautiously rocks his hips, and the friction causes his semi-hard cock to stiffen again. With the lubrication of his cum he slides in and out more easily. He changes the angle and is rewarded by a slight tremble running through Spike’s body.

“It’s like riding a bicycle,” Angel states, not without malice. “You never really forget how.…” 

“So what’s up with this trip down memory lane, Angel?” Spike asks. “Fed up with atonement? If you’re looking for that one moment of bliss that will make your soul go poof, I doubt you’ll find it in my ass.”

Angel pauses. “You know?”

“How stupid do you think I am?”

“Actually.…” Angel pulls out and thrusts back in.

“Forget I asked,” Spike grunts and pushes back. So what if their last fuck was more than a hundred years ago? Time has no meaning for beings that have no heartbeat to measure it with. If this is the hand he’s been dealt, he might just as well enjoy the ride. Literally.

Besides, who cares about fate’s little tripwires like souls and microchips and prophesies when pure and undiluted need tears down all reason? Angel certainly doesn’t care, otherwise he wouldn’t be driving his cock into him again. Yes! There! Spike stifles a moan, unwilling to make a sound.

Spike dimly wonders what Buffy would think if she saw them like this.

He reaches for his erection but his hand is knocked away. When Angel’s fingers close around his cock, he arches back, gasping for air. Angel thrusts in and out, jerking him off in the same rhythm. Hard and fast. Oh yeah! Spike closes his eyes, willing himself back to a time when things were less complicated.

If he tries hard enough he can hear Drusilla’s wicked laughter and smell Darla’s expensive perfume and Angelus’s cigars, feel Dru’s sharp nails cutting his skin, feel Darla’s tongue lapping up his blood. Golden years.

Gone.

And so is Angelus, Spike reminds himself. He shivers, feeling Angel inside him and around him, a being he hardly knows, even though he remembers every muscle, sinew and tendon of that magnificent body with aching clarity. He vaguely wonders what’s going on in Angel’s mind. Whether Angel is revisiting past glories.

A solitary raindrop lands on the back of his hand. Spike turns his head to look at the sky, just as it flickers with lightning like a dodgy light-bulb. More drops hit his face, hair, patter down on his duster with increasing urgency. In less than a minute they are both soaking wet.

Angel never misses a beat. In. Out. In. Out. Deep hard thrusts. Silent. There’s the sound of chafing skin, the slap of flesh against flesh, the rustle of clothing, the creaking of leather, and now the hiss of the rain as it beats down on them, but not a sound from Angel. He isn’t even breathing hard. For that Spike hates him with a passion.

He squeezes his eyes shut, but he leaves his face upturned, letting the downpour wash over him, tasting the rain on his tongue. When he comes all over Angel’s fist, it’s with a violent shudder and a drawn-out moan, but without a word. Thank god.

Angel continues to pound into him, almost savagely, like a beast throwing itself against the bars of its cage, then his grip tightens. As his grandsire jerks and shoots his load in several bursts, Spike thinks he hears something: half obscured by the rain, a single word, uttered in a whisper. It could be his name. Yeah, and if pigs could fly.…

Both are silent. Then Angel withdraws and tucks himself away. Spike wordlessly pulls up his pants. He makes a fist and punches a hole into the side window of the Ford Taunus, sticks his arm inside and unlocks the car. He yanks open the door and hops inside, out of the rain.

Angel doesn’t follow. He stands outside, motionless like he’s carved from granite, face set in a pained expression, looking strangely forlorn. Waiting for an invitation? Spike plucks the dancing Elvis figure from the dashboard and tosses it at his grandsire. Angel catches it by reflex. “Souvenir?” Spike asks, feeling callous.

Angel doesn’t answer. Spike takes off his duster to spread it over the back seats. When he looks up again, Angel is gone. Spike shrugs, leans out, grabs the door handle and yanks the door shut. He smokes, listens to the rain hammering down on his hollow little bubble, knowing that it’s washing away his blood and cum. Feeling empty.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Paratti for beta-reading this.
> 
>  
> 
> Runner up for ‘Best Characterisation’ in the Candy Store Awards  
> (Nominated for ‘Best Characterisation’, ‘Best Darkfic’ and ‘Best Angel(us)/Spike’)
> 
>   
> 


End file.
